Orconomics: A Satire (The Dark Profit Saga Book 1)

by J. Zachary Pike

  He was still licking spiced yak from his fingers when they arrived at a small stone hut near the center of Bloodroot. From the outside, it resembled most of the huts in the town, but inside, it had the musty, lovingly worn air of a shrine. Silence rang like a call to worship.

  Zurthraka led them through the small antechamber to rooms built of oak and pine. Treasure gleamed everywhere: masks and weapons hung from the walls; gems and ceremonial relics sat atop pedestals and benches; suits of armor and great war drums stood in the corners. Gorm recognized plundered Dwarven burial masks, Elven shields, and gold and jewelry from the bygone Empire of Man.

  “This,” said the chieftain softly, “is the Zuggo’lobgar, the High Vault. The greatest treasures of our tribe are stored within these walls.”

  “What’s with the pile of rocks?” asked Laruna.

  “Ah,” said Zurthraka, striding to a pile of crude granite stones somebody had carelessly left amid a collection of priceless artworks and heirlooms. “These are heartseeker beads. In the days before we had our life-papers, every member of the tribe carried one at all times.”

  “Why?” asked Kaitha.

  The Orc lifted a stone the size of a Halfling’s fist and carved with crude, jagged designs. “When the … heroes of the Lightlings come to make war on Shadowkin, they cannot be stopped, only delayed. If we hold out against one warband, another is behind them, and another behind that. No matter how mighty a clan is, they will fall to the Lightlings eventually.

  “And the houses will be looted and burned, and the livestock slaughtered, and the treasures taken away, until the village is ashes and rubble. Nothing can stand. Nothing is left behind. As locusts are to wheat, so are heroes to my people. When we had no life-papers, we knew that if they came we would have but one option: to flee.

  “And so we planned that if the heroes should come, every Orc and Orcess would take a heartseeker bead. Half would stay to fight for the honor of the clan. Half would take the children and flee. And one would take the Heartstone.” He held up the stone and squeezed it. A sibilant shushing rippled through the silent shrine as every bead in the great pile reoriented itself to point toward the stone clenched in Zurthraka’s fist. “And so we would find each other, led by the beads.”

  “It’s horrible that you should live in such fear,” said Niln.

  Zurthraka smiled. “It is passed. Now the beads remind us of the hope we held, even in the darkness. Come. I must show you something.”

  They passed through a second chamber of treasures and weapons into a small back room lit by ornate paper lanterns. The walls were lined with metal masks, or perhaps helmets that completely encased the head in iron. Their faceplates were carved into jagged skulls, each lower jaw piece giving the impression of a ferocious underbite. The masks that hung from the walls were black and charred, but at the back of the room, one of the largest was pristine. White and red paint splattered over it in clear, if rough, patterns. Several smaller masks, no bigger than a hand, sat on a smaller dais behind it.

  “These,” said Zurthraka, “are the gaists of my line. A gaist is the death mask of a chieftain or a champion—the last face a great warrior wants his foes to see. It is the face they will be remembered by.”

  “Is that what it means?” said Gorm, shooting a sidelong glance at Gaist.

  “Did you not know?” said Asherzu with a wry smile. “We assumed his name was part of your brand, your … uh … as you say ‘image,’ no? To be so dark and brooding.”

  Gaist casually glanced at Gorm, and then looked back to the great death masks of the Orcs without so much as uncrossing his arms.

  “You said you have one of our ancestor stones. May I see it?” Zurthraka extended a hand to Niln.

  The high scribe looked uncertain, but when Gorm nodded, Niln carefully pulled the marble from its velvet pouch and handed it over.

  “Burks, the third son of Ogh Magerd,” said Zurthraka, reverently holding the stone. “He slew the entire Doz’narad Tribe for the insult they paid to his father. Truly, he was among the greatest warriors of all time.”

  He set the marble atop the third pedestal along the back wall. “It is said that the Elves let the original gaists rust and rot from the stones. We made these, so that the ancestors may have their true faces back,” Zurthraka said, carefully placing the small death mask over the statue. The gaist fit perfectly, encasing the marble head in a leering iron skull.

  “He is whole again,” the chef said, reverently lifting the completed statue. “Promise me one thing, Niln of the Al’Matrans. You said that you have the power to give the stones to whomever you choose. I will leave you your decision.”

  Gently, Zurthraka handed the statue back to Niln, complete with its new gaist. “But if you do decide to deliver them back to the Elves, say you will put their gaists back on them first. Let the ancestors be who they chose to be, wherever they are.”

  “I will,” Niln promised. “I swear it by the All Mother.”

  “Thank you. If the Guz’Varda can provide you with aid in your journey, we shall do so.”

  Gorm smiled. He’d been waiting for the offer. “Well, there is one thing.”

  Gorm, flanked by Heraldin and Gaist, hurried down a dingy alley. Orcish children fought mock wars and pillaged imaginary villages throughout the dirt streets. Laundry hung between the buildings to dry, and scrawny wargs napped in dusty yards. Orcesses lounged on almost every doorstep, watching them with heavy-lidded eyes.

  A wiry Orc in amethyst robes, Dengark the Venerable, traveled with them to act as a translator and guide. “Perhaps it would be best if we just fetched Ghabrang for you, Master Dwarf. You three could join the other heroes as we prepare the feast of honor.”

  “No thanks,” said Gorm. “I’ve a pretty good idea of what type of Orc our friend Ghabrang is. The kind who’ll be half a league away if he gets word we’re looking for him.”

  Dengark clicked his fangs and looked around uncomfortably. “Perhaps. I cannot say; I’ve never met him myself. But as for the company he keeps … this not a good place. There are many Threk’gongurdin.”

  “I can’t say we’re familiar with the term,” said Heraldin.

  “Ah. No, I suppose you would not be,” said the Orc.

  “What does it mean?” asked Heraldin.

  Dengark blushed a deep pine color. “Well, sometimes, when an Orc and his woman find each other suitably mighty, they go to their hut and—”

  “Right, right,” Gorm cut him off. “Get to the point.”

  “And when an Orc isn’t suitably mighty and has no lady, he goes to a Threk’gongurdin with a fistful of gold and—”

  Gorm shook his head. “Enough said.”

  Heraldin looked thoughtful. “I wonder how much?—ow!”

  “Either invest in some shinguards, or learn to keep your trap shut,” Gorm grumbled.

  Dengark led them into a dilapidated hut. Thick smoke with the herby, umbral scent of opiates choked the cramped chambers of the hut. Semiconscious Orcs were strewn about the floor and the furniture, some taking drags from long wooden pipes and riding the fumes to the gates of oblivion. Aetherbloom was the preferred drug of the poor, being cheaper than elixir and almost as safe. When questioned, a couple of the more responsive smokers indicated that Ghabrang could be found in the back room.

  Gorm stepped through a doorway of hanging beads into a sparse room containing a table, three chairs, and three hulking Orcs who were carving doses of opium from thick, brown bricks and wrapping them in wax paper. They didn’t look happy to see unexpected guests. “What do you want, Lightlings?” snarled the largest.

  “Looking for Ghabrang,” said Gorm. “Got a couple of fast questions.”

  “Get lost before I have your beard for boot-linings,” said the Orc.

  “It’s just a few questions, Ghabrang,” said Gorm.

  Ghabrang glared at Gorm through narrowed eyes. “You’re the one everybody’s talking about. The one who punched out an Elf because he talked bad about s
ome Goblin.”

  “I am.”

  “And I’m supposed to care? I’ve killed Point-ears for less. I’m not going to fall at your feet like a lonely warg for the favors you’ve done a Goblin.”

  “You will watch your tongue around our honored guests!” snapped Dengark. “And you will answer their questions!”

  “Or else what? Will I wind up telling everybody who’s been fawning over the good and noble Goblin-friend how he came into my home with demands and threats of violence?” grinned Ghabrang. “Will the Orcs of Bloodroot think he’s just another gold-hound who is strong-arming Zurthraka into doing his bidding?”

  “Can’t have that,” said Gorm. “I got a reputation to protect. Come on, Dengark, let’s step outside.”

  “But—”

  “I think Heraldin and Gaist might have a bit more luck talkin’ to our friend here than we will,” Gorm told the wise-one.

  Ghabrang and his cohorts laughed. “Oh? And who are they?”

  “What? Ye ain’t heard of them?”

  “Of course not.”

  Gorm grinned wolfishly. “Well, I guess they don’t have much of a reputation.”

  Gaist cracked his knuckles. The Orcs blanched.

  Gorm and Dengark didn’t even make it to the front door before Heraldin called them back with a proclamation that Ghabrang was suddenly feeling much more hospitable and talkative. “But he said he wants to speak to the Dwarf alone,” Heraldin added.

  The courtyard behind the drug den was crammed between several windowless huts. A small table amid the potted aetherbloom plants afforded Gorm and Ghabrang a measure of privacy. The Orc slouched on his stool and shot Gorm a sullen look. “You’ve got my ear, Longbeard.”

  “I want to know about the Leviathan Project.”

  Panic flashed across Ghabrang’s face. “I … I know nothing about that.”

  “I have it on good word that ye do. Or, at least, better word than yours.”

  “I … I can’t say anything about it.”

  Gorm leaned in. “Try.”

  “Do you know what could happen to me if anybody working on the project found out I talked?” Sweat beaded on Ghabrang’s brow.

  “Working on it?” Gorm’s brow furrowed. “I thought the project ended when Johann took Detarr Ur’Mayan’s head.”

  Ghabrang wiped his forehead as he realized he’d loosed more information than intended. “I-I will say nothing more.”

  “Are ye workin’ on the project?” Gorm pressed.

  “I will say nothing more,” Ghabrang repeated forcefully. “Your bard and the psychopath can do their worst. I will not speak.”

  “The bard and the weaponsmaster? Did ye think they’re my threat? Lad, they ain’t my leverage. They’re here for your protection.”

  Ghabrang harrumphed. “Tell that to Burthak. It will take a couple of moons for his face to heal.”

  “Aye, but it will heal. And now your Wise-one Dengark thinks you’re speaking to me because me lads roughed ye up, and not because I know ye’ve been workin’ as a henchman on the side.”

  “By Razar’s flame …” Ghabrang wore the panicked look of one who has seen his own future and discovered there was distressingly little left.

  “Aye, now ye see how bad a day you’re actually havin’,” said Gorm. “What do ye suppose the tribe would do if they found out there was a villain’s minion living among them, eh? I suppose nobody outside of Bloodroot would ever hear of it. But inside the town, they’d have to make an example of ye, right? And if I remember my history correctly, your people have ways of makin’ an execution … memorable.”

  “I don’t know much about … about the project itself, all right?”

  “I can go and have a talk with Dengark, if ye like,” said Gorm.

  “No! No …” Ghabrang’s shoulders fell. “Look, I used to run in a mob of Orcs for Aya of Blades, back when she was working with the big noctomancers. Detarr Ur’Mayan, Teldir of Umbrax, Win Cinder, Az’Anon the Black, and Lady Aya, they were all working on something huge. The other henchmen called it Project Leviathan, and they’d send us to get whatever it was the wizards needed.

  “Usually, we were hauling old statues or Stennish charms or other creepy bits of art, and always in crates with a weird stamp on it, like a fish with a long mustache. We’d just move the goods from one tower or dungeon to another. I don’t know what they wanted it for. They don’t pay us to ask questions, right? We just moved the crates.”

  “So, what’s happening with it now?”

  Ghabrang rubbed the sweat from his brow. “Somebody’s started the project up again. I don’t know who, or why, but they’re paying good money for the loot that came out of the old noctomancers’ dungeons. Guy I knew got fifteen thousand giltin for a sword that Win Cinder carried. Fifteen thousand! You know that statue of that Sten king, or whatever, they got up at the top of Andarun?”

  Gorm felt a chill run up his spine. “Aye.”

  “A chip from that statue will get you a hundred thousand—just a chip the size of a pebble! Nobody has figured out how to get it yet, but still … think about all that money.”

  Gorm was too busy thinking about the statue itself. The idea that anyone besides Niln had taken an interest in the Dark Prince was troubling. “Who’s the buyer?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s someone with deep pockets and a desire for old art. I swear on Gathra’s blade that is all I know! Everyone just calls him the Master!”

  “And what’s your part in all of this?”

  Ghabrang licked his lips and looked to the door, before whispering, “The Master routes his treasures through Bloodroot. I help his henchmen move the shipments through. Helped. I’m done. I swear it.”

  “Why Bloodroot?”

  “Because it is so close to the border with Ruskan, and to the Master’s lair. Do not make me say more, Dwarf.”

  “Ye know what I need. Tell me.”

  “Men have died for less,” protested the Orc.

  “Where is the lair of the Master?” demanded Gorm.

  Ghabrang slumped back into his chair, defeated. “Just over the border in the Ashen Tower,” he said. “The old lair of Detarr Ur’Mayan.”

  Chapter 15

  “Going to the Ashen Tower is folly,” Jynn hollered, slamming his palm down on the table. There was a brief lull in the raucous commotion of Bloodroot’s Longhouse, but once the Orcish patrons realized it wasn’t the sound of a bar brawl starting, they quickly returned to bar brawls already in progress.

  An Orcish Longhouse, Gorm decided, was much like any other tavern, except that it was long instead of tall and everything was stronger: the beer stung like Dwarven whiskey; the food was spiced with pungent peppers that burned Gorm’s tongue; the Orcs that lined the long tables were quick to prove their might with boisterous, almost jovial, fights; and the bartender keeping the chaos in check was almost as big as Chief Zurthraka.

  “We don’t even know the stones are there,” hissed Jynn.

  “Aye, but we don’t have a better lead, do we?” asked Gorm.

  “It’s barely a lead!” said the noctomancer. “It’s the word of a known smuggler, desperate to have you out of his hut. For all we know he’s sending us into a trap.”

  “Still the best lead we have,” said Gorm.

  “How far is it?” asked Niln.

  “No more than two days ride to the northeast, if the maps are right,” Kaitha said. “It’s close enough, to be sure. The question is whether we’re ready to go riding into the lair of a potential necromancer.”

  “The answer, by the way, is no, not at all,” said Heraldin.

  Gaist nodded in agreement.

  “If there’s a necromancer there with half as much gold as Ghabrang said, we won’t have any problem getting reinforcements,” said Gorm.

  “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” said Jynn.

  All eyes turned to Niln. Niln’s eyes turned to Gorm. “I … excuse me.” The high scribe slipped from t
he bench and ran from the longhouse.

  The other heroes stared after him, perplexed. “Did he just run away from us?” Laruna asked.

  “I should probably check on him, Gleeb—er—Tib’rin.” His squire’s new name—which was to say, his old name—was proving a difficult adjustment.

  “Zugzug.”

  Fortunately, a Human in white robes attracted a lot of attention in an Orc village, so it was easy to find Orcs who could direct Gorm to Niln. The high scribe was sitting on a boulder a little way beyond the town gate, looking up at the stars.

  “Do you know what the Shadowkin call professional heroes?” Niln asked, as Gorm sat down beside him. “In their own tongue.”

  “My Shadowtongue ain’t so good.”

  “Gold-hounds,” said Niln. “Chief Zurthraka told me. It’s because they hunt Orcs down and kill them once they get the scent of gold.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “And accurate, by the stories they tell.”

  Gorm couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t even deny being a part of it.

  For a time, they sat and watched the stars come out. Fulgen’s Light flared brightest of them all, an azure lantern shining across the heavens.

  Niln eventually broke the silence. “I always thought of heroes as these paragons, archetypes of man,” he said. “The best we had to offer. That’s what the stories and ballads tell us. They’re just average people with pure hearts and righteous intentions, and then … I don’t know … things work out for them. They save the day. And it’s not because they’re strong or skilled or have ridiculously sharp flaming swords. I mean, maybe they have strength and skill and weapons, but the villain has those things too. They’re not the reason the heroes win. In the legends, the heroes win because they’re good.”

  Gorm sighed. “But those are just stories. The truth is that mankind needs to be defended from monsters, and doing as much takes stone-hearted killers. There ain’t no honor in it. It’s a job. Sometimes, the ones who are best at it ain’t much better than the monsters themselves.”